Pitfall (17 page)

Crossing his legs he sighed, the schoolmaster with the backward pupil. “Simply put, Charles will ask you some questions. You will, in due course, answer those questions. Your straightforwardness, as well as the alacrity of your answers, will wholly determine how quickly your death will transpire. And my son is more than willing to take all the time he needs.”

Boneless stared, looking at me with fresh interest, seeming to revel in perverse anticipation at the idea.

“Then we’re in for one long night,” I said, lifting my head by degrees and looking him straight in the eye. “Because I don’t know shit.”

Eli scowled good-naturedly. “Don’t sell yourself short. I’d bet you’d be surprised at how much you’re willing to tell us. Especially around the fourth hour.” He turned to his son. “Isn’t that right, Charles? The fourth hour is usually when the cooperation really starts?”

Boneless kept his predatory gaze on me. “Yes. About then. However, given your special proclivities, you may prove to be a more … lasting pleasure.”

My mouth felt as dry as cornflakes. “You said I was the first one you’d captured.”

“On site, yes.” Eli motioned with is hand. “Even so, this room has seen much use in the past two years. Many have sat where you’re sitting. And doubtless thinking what you are at this very minute.”

Well, maybe. My thoughts were split between cursing myself for an idiot, and wanting to rip Eli’s smirking head from his shoulders like a pineapple off a stalk. Speaking of which: “What others have sat where I’m sitting?”

“The occasional drifter. You know. Hoboes, homeless people and the like. Charles likes to bring those in himself. He does enjoy the hunt. For instance, this chair your arms and legs are clamped into? With a press of a button it fully reclines, turning it into a table of sorts. I then let Charles do as he wishes.”

“Sometimes I anesthetize them first,” Boneless said, and he smiled. “Sometimes.”

I couldn’t help it. “But
why?
What’s the
point?”

Eli genuinely appeared puzzled. “Why, to keep Charles’s skills sharp.”

“No. I mean this.” I jerked my chin around. That caused the room to whirl. “Why all this? For what?”

“You’re a hillbilly, Mr.  Brenner. And for all your well-turned words you’re still just a country boy at heart, adrift in the world. I’d hardly expect a man like you to fathom what we hope to accomplish here at GeneSys.”

“Aw, give it a shot, Eli,” I grinned sickly. “What have you got to lose? You’re going to kill me anyway, who could I tell? And besides—” I leaned forward, straining, pinning him with my eyes like a moth to a board. “You know you’re dying to.” 

Some might think I was reckless, goading the man. But one thing I’ve learned, both in my harsh upbringing and my time in the Army, is there’s always hope. Against long, or even impossible odds, there’s always a chance things will work out. And if I could get Eli Cross to give me even one item I could use against him, I’d take it, and believe for the best.

His eyes crinkled up in fine humor, making him look like the president of the Kiwanis. If they had a chapter in hell. “You know, you’re quite astute, in your hayseed way.”

If this man continued to insult my lineage, I was going to get upset.

“Very well, I’ll tell you. As you put it, what have I got to lose?” He rose and approached me.

“Father …” Boneless’s word carried a tone of warning, but Eli waved it away.

“Charles, I allow you to take pleasure in your own way, without interference. Please allow me the courtesy in kind.”

With nothing further, only a subservient nod, the son stepped aside.

Eli placed himself directly in front of me. “All right. Where should we begin?”

“Why don’t you begin with telling me where you’ve stashed the girl?”

Eli’s smile broadened, his eyes twinkling. “Raven. What a delight she is. She’ll likely prove to be one of our better donors. Surely you’ve surmised by now the agricultural front of GeneSys is chimera.”

I knew that, but I couldn’t tip my hand. “Explain.”

He stepped closer, and with his right hand he lightly ran the tip of his index finger down my breastbone, like a sick parody of a lover’s touch. For some reason I noticed he wore a diamond pinky ring on that hand, and a Rolex Oyster on his wrist.

Pausing, he tracked right, stopping below my last rib. His voice was silken. “Right there, justjust a few centimeters beneath your skin and muscles, lays a treasure. Your liver. Minute by minute it filters toxins from your body, keeping you alive.” He looked up. “And if I were to remove it, how long do you suppose you’d last? A day? Two?”

I didn’t answer.

“And how much would you spend for another?” he pressed. “Ten thousand? Twenty? Or would you agree it’s priceless, and would pay whatever the market demanded?”

Looking up into his dead eyes with contempt, I rasped, “How much are you selling them for, Eli?”

He shrugged. “It varies, depending on the desperation of the need. I never let a liver go for less than three hundred thousand. Corneas, on the other hand, are fifty thousand each. Other organs I place on a sliding scale. Healthy bone marrow, for instance, goes for five thousand dollars a gram, while hair I send to overseas wigmakers for two hundred to five hundred dollars a pound, depending on the color and length.” He grinned. “But hearts, now, hearts are the prize. One million dollars each, no negotiation.”

Tilting his head, he regarded me like a butcher would a side of beef. “Externally you’re a magnificent specimen, Mr.  Brenner. Utterly magnificent. I just hope your organs haven’t been damaged by the injuries you’ve suffered over the years. But if in fact they’re as well taken care of as your physique, you’d be astounded at the price you’ll fetch.”

I bared my teeth. “Stop, you’re turning my head.”

“And what a nice head it is, too. It’s a wonder you never went into modeling or acting. But if you had, you surely wouldn’t be here, would you?” I didn’t reply. “Your dossier tells me you have 20/10 vision. Do you know how rare that is? Your eyes alone are worth a fortune. And here we can make full use of them. The corneas, the retinas, even the vitreous humor can be utilized.”

So my fate was to be a supply house. I narrowed those perfect, valuable eyes. “And your clientele have no problem with paying those prices because they’re filthy rich.”

“Just so. What they do have a problem with are waiting lists.” Eli stared placidly back. “Consider this. Let’s say you’re a wealthy man; how you got that wealth is immaterial. But you’ve received some jolting news. During your annual exam your physician has told you your liver is failing. Without a transplant, it’s a death sentence. The waiting list for another is long, but he says you may luck out and still be alive when a match is found.”

“Unless fate intervenes.”

“Or something like it. Because then through a global underground network, a group of medical professionals you scarcely knew existed but who have been providing these services for years, an offer is made. A matching liver can be found, in a fraction of the time.”

“For a price.”

“Of course, for a price. Remember the scenario. You’re dying, Mr.  Brenner; what use is your money? Can any price be too much to pay to move you to the head of the line?”

“So how do you get them here?” I said roughly. “These donors of yours? And more to the point, how come they’re not missed?”

From where he stood, Boneless barked a laugh. “Missed?”

“My son is correct,” Eli stated. “Mainly the donors are culled from lists put together by our walk-in clinics.”

“Like Brighter Day.”

“Yes. As I said, we have similar operations set up in major metropolitan areas across the world. Granted, most of the donors we see are of inferior quality. Addicts, disease-ridden prostitutes, what have you. But among the dross, we get the occasional nugget.”

“A nugget like Raven.”

“That’s true. Runaways like her, the indigent, the homeless, the handicapped, and young adults are our best bet, both males and females. That is, provided we get them early enough, before the pimps and dealers do.”

Unobtrusively I flexed my arms, trying to get the blood going.

He pressed on. “Once here, our med techs conduct a full array of blood tests and other medical workups. That information is then entered into a secure database, so when a request comes in for a particular body part, we can match the recipient’s workups against the donor’s. Once a match is found, we bring the patient to one of our very remote, extremely discrete facilities—like this one—to perform the surgery.”

“Lessening the chance of rejection,” I said.

“Yes.”

“Then you kill the donor.”

“Usually. I mean, it would be silly to try to save the donor if we’ve taken something vital from them, like a stomach or such.”

Yes. Silly.

“But if it’s a non-vital organ, say perhaps a spleen, or their eyes, we can keep them a while longer; against them possibly providing something else we may need.”

“But you don’t keep them forever.”

“Well, no. Everything organic has a limited shelf life, even milk or bratwurst; why not the human body? After culling the best pieces, we deep freeze the rest. Arms, legs, hands, feet, skin, sometimes whole cadavers, if nothing on it is particularly usable. All those we sell to third-world medical schools; they aren’t as picky as their American and European brethren. After that, whatever’s left goes into the Pit.” Where I was headed, for sure.

Then Eli really jolted me. “It might interest you to know that from time to time we get a disabled vet here. True, many times their limbs are useless, but their innards, as you Southerners say, in some cases are quite satisfactory. What do you think about that?”

I couldn’t trust myself to reply, instead asking, “How do you attract these people?”

“Newspaper ads, run in alternative presses. We entice them to the clinics by saying they’ll be well-compensated for their time in certain studies.”

“Studying what?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he shrugged. “Whatever works. After verifying our donors have no immediate families, we pick them up in vans and bring them here. Once they arrive they’re sedated with a new drug that was developed in Czechoslovakia. It results in no ill effects on the subject whatsoever.”

There we had it. Somehow Manfred had missed the fact Raven wasn’t a runaway, but was really debutante Sarah Cahill, with a rich family desperate to have her back. Maybe I could use that fact to help us both. But I’d have to pick the perfect time.

“So don’t be too concerned about the girl,” he said. “She’s comfortably back in bed, safely tucked away. Charles gave her a cocktail of some strong medications.” His smile was winning. “By the time she awakens, some eight hours hence, if Raven has any memories of you at all, it will only be as the broken shards of a forgotten dream.”

I ground out my reply. “You really are psychotic, Eli.”

“On the contrary. I’m a businessman. A very good one.” He grinned. “Here’s something you’ll like. Did you know I’m considering taking my business to the next level, and culling the best subjects, and breeding them?”

I stared.
“Breeding?”

“Just so. Then we’ll have an unending source of infants to sell. As a side benefit we can also sell the DVDs of their copulation to … discriminating buyers.”

Again I kept silent.

Then Eli shifted gears, and pointed at Charles. “Take a look at my son, please. A long look. Tell me. What do you see?”

I did, and gazed back at my captor. “A sadistic, evolutionary U-turn?”

Shaking his head, Boneless took a step toward me.

Eli stopped him with just a touch. “Patience, Charles. You can have him soon.” The other man relaxed, the tension leaving his body as quickly as it had come.

The older man sighed. “Mr.  Brenner, please. In a few moments I’ll be leaving you here alone with him. How things progress from that point is up to you.”

“Yeah. You said.”

“So take care, I implore you. There’s no sense making this more difficult than it has to be. Charles can be high-strung.”

I looked over. “Yo, Boneless, you handsome devil. Your dad says you’re high-strung. You might consider switching to decaf.”

It didn’t faze him, and he just laughed. I needed something, anything, to bust these homicidal maniacs’ composure. My voice took on a carrying tone. “I’ve been wanting to ask you something. How come you look so weird?”

If this upset the freak’s delicate sensibilities, I didn’t care. What was he going to do? Torture and kill me?

Eli interrupted with a frown. “That’s cruel.”

“Tough shit.”

“Yes, it is tough shit. My son can’t help the way he appears. Although mentally brilliant and physically strong, at fourteen he was terribly burned when some chemicals he was working with caught fire. It was touch and go for a time. We almost lost him.”

Wouldn’t that have been a pity? “He must be a hit with the ladies.”

Eli pursed his lips. “Please, sir. The time for witty remarks has passed. Due to his injuries my son suffers from many maladies: wheezing speech, the lack of body hair, and the inability to perspire, or grow fingernails. The fire was so hot even his teeth exploded.”

I’d witnessed injuries like that myself in combat, but wasn’t about to take anything at face value that these two said. “Says you. I’ve seen his teeth.”

“Dentures,” Boneless piped up. “Good ones, too.”

I plowed on. “Okay. But I still say you look like that guy in that movie,
The Hills Have Eyes
.”

Boneless’s return smile was gentle. “I’ll be the last thing you see with yours.”

I stared stonily back without reply, and Eli chuckled. “Have a care, Mr.  Brenner. He’ll do it, too. And enjoy it.”

Anger and revulsion clotted my voice as again I gazed up at him. “God almighty, Cross, what kind of people
are
you?”

“I won’t answer for myself but I can tell you as a certainty Charles is something … unique.”

Unique. I guess that was one way to put it.

“I knew from the start he was special,” Eli continued. “Even prior to his injuries. And after his mother’s untimely death at his birth I set out to make him more so. Using operant conditioning techniques first developed by the late B.F. Skinner, as well as methods of my own, I formed Charles. Like clay, I molded him into what you see here.”

Frankenstein, move over. “But some of Skinner’s work was controversial,” I argued. The surrealism of this conversation wasn’t lost on me. “Sensory deprivation and the like.”

“And so it is. Only I refined that work to a degree he had scarcely dreamed of.”

“Like what?”

“Like Charles’s living quarters during his childhood. Until the day he turned twelve, he lived in a Plexiglas room of my own design. There he stayed, free of any outside contact, his monitoring and supervision constant.”

Sadistic blood obviously ran in the Cross family veins, starting with the dad.

“Charles has only ever eaten a special food paste I invented.”

Food paste. Probably the same baby food crap they fed the prisoners.

The old man’s voice grew stronger, as if he was enjoying my horror at the treatment of his son. “When he was a toddler, periodically I would remove him from his room and place him in one of those sensory deprivation chambers you spoke of a moment ago. There, for increasingly long durations, he would experience no light, sound, smell, or human touch.”